Thriving From A Rift
by innle
Summary: What happens the morning after? Post-ep for Mindbender.


********************

A/N: Huge thanks to jen1703, who very kindly beta'd this for me. Apologies to Charlie Parker for the title.  
  
I haven't seen s3 yet (g'rr), so don't be surprised if some things aren't consistent with later developments. (I'm trying to stay unspoiled…I love the smell of futility in the morning.)  
  
Oh, and I'm a shameless feedback slut. Just so you know.

********************

She's here again. She's walking into his room – no – gliding – that eerie – oh shit – walking or flying? He doesn't know, but she hasn't ever come into his room like this, without knocking, middle of the night – except – 

No! 

He jerks upright, almost kneeing himself in the head. Checks his room in a panic. Looks for red hair. Blank eyes.

And then he is ashamed. He groans quietly, hugs his knees to his chest. Huddles in a welter of twisted sheets, under a ray of early light that the heavy curtains can't deny. Just a dream. A damn nightmare, Summers.

He should be used to them by now. But they never seem to get any better. 

Maybe because his life keeps throwing up new material.

He still sometimes dreams about his parents, about Alex, about the plane. He'll probably dream about that for the rest of his life. But that's an old pain, familiar enough to fade into the background most of the time. 

He never has nightmares about Magneto coming to kill them all where they sleep. Nor about the time he and Alex almost died at sea through their own stupidity, or about being captured by the humans they're trying so hard to protect. 

It's the other things that are really bad. The ones he can't seem to do anything about.

He dreams about being blind again. About disappointing the Professor. About the X-Men walking out on him. What can he do if he's not here? Where does a brain-damaged, mutant orphan go? 

He's always had nightmares about what he can't control. 

And now he has nightmares about her. 

She used to be safe. Even when she was ignoring him for Duncan, he couldn't really believe she'd ever do anything to hurt him. Sure, he knew the high school politics were going on – how could he not? – and they got to him sometimes. (Why else would he go to the prom with her best friend?) 

But it's as if the red of his glasses filters out the petty white noise of their lives and cuts straight to the real stuff. A ligament of pure light between them, perfectly ineluctable: resilient and pure. A cello resounding low. Knowing she's nearby fills him with endless, dazzling space, like a sunlit glass of water. 

Oh, man, it all feels so weird when he tries to put it into words like this. She draws this out of him, these bursts of light and colour and feeling. Out of Scott Summers, of all people: boring, predictable, pole-up-his-ass Scott Summers, who can just about manage a bad joke on his best days. 

But that's the only way he can describe how he feels. Sight and sound and smell and taste and touch all mixed up in a wonderful, inextricable, dizzying mess of them, and nothing but them. 

That's how he felt. 

And now he's scared of her. 

She's used her powers on him before. It's not that. Hell, as Jean gets more comfortable with her TK, she's started to shove him all over the place. Especially early in the morning, and especially when she's cranky. 

Whenever he's suddenly found himself in the air, he's been more worried about his glasses coming loose and _him_ hurting _her_ than the other way round. He trusts her, because he knows her.

It's just…she seems so ethical and perfect most of the time that it's easy to forget just how powerful she is. Easier to forget that there's almost nothing he can do to stop her. He can't hurt her. Especially after Asteroid M, when he betrayed her and everything he ever believed in. 

He'd do anything to stop her looking at him like that again. 

His head sinks onto his knees. He can't think about this any more, or he'll do something to regret. 

Get up, Scott. Have a shower, quickly, because you need to drive the others to school. Wear the visor, in case Mastermind comes back. But get dressed like this is any other day.

Like your friends weren't mind-raped yesterday.

Maybe if you wear the blue shirt, you can pretend it will all be OK.

**********

He clunks down the stairs and into the kitchen, feeling that familiar snap in his movements that means he's Cyclops again. Cyclops is a lot simpler than Scott. The uniform and the visor are just props. Cyclops doesn't need them to take control.

Cyclops has really good mental shields, as well. He might need them this morning.

The kitchen is a little more subdued than usual. No pre-school flurry of cereal and last-minute homework today. Kitty and Kurt are both at the table. Evan isn't there yet. He will have to hurry if he wants to make it to school on time – unless the Professor's given him the day off. That would make sense.

Logan grunts at Scott from his perch on the windowsill, but that's pretty much what happens every day. Neither of them is a morning person.

Kurt's stuffing chocolate Pop-Tarts into his mouth with complete absorption. If Scott didn't know better, he'd say he was avoiding eye contact.

Kitty's staring at the table, too, a long way from her fuzzy blue friend. She hasn't touched her bowl of Cheerios, and the milk's eroding them into a soggy mash. She snaps her head up as he walks in, but quickly lowers her eyes again when she recognises him. Is that relief or disappointment? 

He's more worried about the other person in the room, though. Jean's as far as she can get from the others, nursing a cup of coffee at the big table. She hasn't slept well – her eyes are as dull as her hair, which is lying in straggles around her face. That's a worry. She loves her hair.

Nevertheless, the sight of Jean, haunted yet somehow still whole after all that bastard did to her, twangs that invisible bond tight again. 

And suddenly he's not afraid of her any more. He doesn't think he can be afraid.

Jean's head shoots up at his footsteps, just like Kitty's, and for a brief second... no, that's wishful thinking, Summers. Crap, he's staring at her. 

Panic registers on her face, before she averts her eyes again. 

Nobody wants to see him today.

He doesn't blame them. Stupid self-centred bastard that he is, wrapped up in his own fears, he's forgotten the terror and shame that Jean and the others must be feeling. 

And why? Because they never had a chance. Because they relied on the rest of the team, the ones who weren't affected, for protection, and the team didn't do anything until it was far too late, until the showdown in the circus mud yesterday afternoon.

Scott didn't do anything. He couldn't do anything.

No wonder nobody wants to see him today.

He should go. Get out. 

Go away.

How far, he doesn't know. Just away from here. 

Shit.

Even Cyclops can't handle this one.

**********

She's disconnected. Jerky and distant. She doesn't want to be. At all. Jean wants to hang on to the merest shred of consciousness. It's all hers. Her mind. Her shields. Shielding for all she's worth, even though it barely slowed him down. Anything is better than surrender. Plus, shields mean she can disappear into her own brain, as if she never really existed at all, not even the merest blip on the psychic radar. Drawn into herself, she lives in the throbbing headache of yesterday's TK overuse, oblivious even to the heat of the brimming coffee mug in her hands. 

But she senses him coming.

They're…attuned. When Kurt or Logan or any of the others wants to know where Scott is, they ask Jean. She just knows.

It's like they've got some kind of link, something just below the surface of consciousness. It's the part of her that flares to bittersweet life at the sight of him. 

The others think he's cocky, methodically sadistic in the Danger Room. She has to listen to them because in a house that jangles with conflict, nobody's shields are perfect.

But to her telepath eyes, Scott's all angles and rue. 

He's so tired, especially when he thinks no-one's looking. It's hard to be responsible for people like Kurt and Rogue, who are always shouting they don't want to be looked after. Yet Jean has seen the secret relief when they are pulled into line, run after, pestered by their Fearless Leader. Most of the X-Men haven't expected to be looked after for a long time.

Somehow Scott knows all of this, too, and he tries to look after everyone in just the right way. He often gets it wrong…but he's trying.

He cares. Way too much. 

Does he care too much about her?

Oh hell, she's known he likes her since…forever. Hard not to. And she's led him on, suddenly the popular/smart/pretty/talented one. Pretty crazy, for someone who spent her early adolescence being, uh, pretty crazy.

It all comes back to power.

So much physical change, the long long legs and the tiny tiny waist and the shining red hair perfect for flipping flirtatiously, that's all harmless, right? 

So much shiny new social authority. Anyone would get a huge group of pretty friends and date the quarterback and never be alone, right? 

So much new TK, sometimes she just has to let it out. Move things. Shove Scott around. But friends do that. Right? 

For a while, Jean was perfect. 

But she's realising she was only perfect at fooling herself, because the power has turned against her in the end, all of it.

What does perfect hair matter when she's betrayed Scott in so many ways? She's a bitch. She can't believe people like her for her personality any more.

Her snubs and broken promises…she's led Scott on, hurt him over and over again. For what? For Duncan, some jock with wandering hands? For Taryn, who tried to snag Scott as soon as her back was turned? (Why does that hurt so much, anyway?)

And worst of all, her mutation betrayed her. When M-

Mastermind. When Mastermind took over. She couldn't do anything, she was too damn _weak _to protect herself. Ever since her power surge, she's been working so hard on her control. To just have it taken away so easily…she doesn't know if she can stand it.

And without control, the bad things come out. They're always there. Watching. Waiting. She saw the black depths of so many people's minds, back when she was in the psych ward, that she never knows if the bad things are really hers or not. But they're in her head now, and she has to keep them locked up, in tiny midnight boxes along the back wall of her mind. 

But all of Mastermind's rummaging and her TK headache have loosened the boxes, and they're rattling like evil popcorn. She keeps slamming them back into place, but she's scared. So scared. What does she do now?

And why the hell would Scott want to know her, when she's capable of such terrible things?

She has no answers. 

And then he appears in the doorway.

Look up. The visor's on, instead of the glasses. It makes him look grim, even more tense than usual. He's command-stiff – what does that mean? – about to catch her eye through the ruby quartz.

Look down.

**********

After a few seconds of staring into her cooling coffee, she realises that he's not coming over. Oh God, he hates her. 

She can't bear it. 

She reaches.

She drops her shields a little and quests out, but her mind's tendril barely reaches him. Suddenly, she's deafened by the psychic waves of self-loathing and defeat and just plain _despair_ that crash around him. He's way too upset to shield. And it hurts.

__

didn't do anything i couldn't do anything get out scott of course they hate you get out go away just another failure get out before she can hate you more you selfish bastard go away

All this? From her not looking at him? 

She brings her eyes up again, and he's turning away. His slumped shoulders speak eloquently to her. He looks so sad and alone.

But he'll never be sad and alone with her around. She won't let him. Not when he doesn't really want to be alone. Not when she loves him.

Yeah, she loves him. Easy enough to admit, in the end.

She follows Scott out of the kitchen. Logan and Kitty and Kurt have nothing to do with this: she ignores their bemused gazes.

Jean is aware of the psychic maelstrom Scott's broadcasting, but she doesn't need to follow it to know where he's going. The garage. His Corvette. When Scott runs, he runs _fast_.

She catches up. He knows she's there, even without looking. 

He turns the key and shoves the 'Vette into first. Jean has other plans.

Without hesitation, with invisible hands, she slams the garage door shut and yanks the key out of the ignition. The 'Vette dies. Scott's not happy.

"Hey!"

But it suddenly hits her. She's just used her powers against him. *Again*. And…it's too soon for her battered mind to be moving things, too soon after yesterday. Her TK headache blooms into an abrupt white supernova. She sinks to the greasy concrete floor.

"Jean!"

Her shoulders. Strong, solicitous hands. The visor, a furrowed brow. She's hardly there at all. Her bones are liquid, mercury sliding away through her skin.

Suddenly arms are around her, she's gathered up ever-so-carefully up off the cold grimy floor. She whimpers at the movement. Then her head's on his shoulder, his eloquent shoulder. 

Scott's still thinking so loud and it still hurts oh god it hurts but she's driving 

down

down

away from the pain

and just before she loses herself, she can see the bond, shining bravely in the terrible dark. 

She latches on.

She's dimly aware that he gasps, his muscles rigid. Shit, she's given him his pain. She feels the pain in her head, and she can feel the pain she's given him, his pain at her pain, which hurts more, and her pain at causing him pain…

But Scott surprises her. She's forgotten he's no stranger to power headaches. He can still think through his/her/their pain. His breathing grounds her. 

Together, they suppress the supernova of pain, very gently and slowly. It fades.

She refuses to open her eyes. She refuses to let go. 

The first shock of linking is wearing off. She feels the moment he starts worrying again. _ohgodi'mtouchingherwhatdowedoisshegoingtohurtme_

It's automatic. She hangs on as tight as she can. 

And she opens the link a little wider. She holds herself open to him. No pushing, just trust.

After a second's pause, his end of the link widens, too. Ideas thoughts emotions images memories faster and faster but she can keep up. They can both keep up.

And everything makes a lot more sense.

Holding the link open takes some effort. She doesn't want to lose this contact so doesn't say anything, but Scott knows her better than anyone else ever will, remember? Plus, they're mind-to-mind: he can feel everything she can. Including the slow return of her headache.

He lets their bond's flare slowly subside, and Jean follows suit. It should feel anti-climactic. It doesn't.

The link seems a little thicker, a little brighter than before. Jean can hear a thread of sound, low and full. It sounds like a cello.

She opens her eyes. Her nose is buried in Scott's neck. The metal of his visor, warm from his body, presses into the side of her head. 

He's supporting as much of her lanky body as he can off the oily ground. She can't imagine how dirty his pants must be.

He shifts to catch her gaze through his visor. "Not that dirty."

Jean flushes, as much at the double entendre as the implied criticism. But she slowly realises that she can _feel _him, and there's no criticism in him anywhere. Just wry amusement. Support. Acceptance.

It's the best feeling she's had for a long time. 

"Me, too" he whispers, and it's not a shock this time. It's just right.

"Thank you."

She doesn't know which one of them said it, but it doesn't matter. Maybe they both did. There are Jean-flavours, tinges of Scott, but all of a sudden identity itself seems less concrete.

And that could be a problem in the future. This mental bond…she now knows things about him that a cowardly part of her wishes she could ignore. Small, ignoble things. Bigger secrets. 

He knows these things about her, too.

But it's not bare knowledge, she realises. She has his emotions as well. She can't blame him when she knows how he feels, _exactly _how he feels. This is total sharing. She'd have to hate herself as well. And that's almost impossible while his red unconditional glow is buoying her up, floating her above those evil black boxes along the back wall. (The ones that aren't rattling any more.)

It goes both ways. Her mental privacy is much more tenuous now, but she also knows she can sustain him above the sucking mire of his self-doubt. He deserves that. 

It's not simple. But not bad, either. 

"You do know we're going to have to talk about this one day. Don't you?" It can't be as easy as it seems. Nothing ever is. 

__

Yeah. But not today. His presence in her mind is solid and warm. "We have to go to school, Red." He is grinning. She doesn't have to look.

__

But not just yet. And she is grinning, too.

They remain curled up together on the concrete until they hear Rogue tromping towards the garage.

No guilt. No fear. Just them.

At least for a little while.


End file.
